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A side door to the hangar opens and the pilot, Jeff, comes out, holding a plastic shopping bag, which he passes over to Liam. He’s wearing blue jeans, black polo shirt, and an LA Dodgers jacket. His close-cropped hair is still matted down with sweat.
“Some water and energy bars,” he says. “Best I can do.”
“Thanks,” Liam says. “I appreciate it. And thanks for the fantastic flight. What do you do now?”
“Me? Sit my ass down, maybe take a nap, read a book. The C-17we launched from won’t be here until sometime late tonight. Then we load up and fly back home.”
Liam says, “Where are we?”
“Closest thing to the ‘middle of nowhere’ you’ll ever experience, Mr. Grey,” Jeff says. “Namibia is over there, and Botswana is over there, and there’s not much in between. Anything else?”
With a bit of humor, Liam says, “You never showed me the ejection handle.”
Jeff says, “That’s because there isn’t one. That’s why it’s called a test flight. And like I said before we launched, by the time you figure out there’s an emergency, it’s too late.”
“Oh,” Liam says.
Jeff turns to go back into the warehouse. “But what difference does it make? This place doesn’t exist, this aircraft doesn’t exist, and neither do I.” He pauses. “Pity, because you’ve joined a very exclusive club.”
“Unauthorized civilians hitching a ride on a nonexistent aircraft?”
“Nope,” Jeff says, opening the side door. “We flew fifty miles above the earth’s surface. Congratulations, Mr. Grey, you’re officially an astronaut. But no one will ever know.”
CHAPTER 92
LIAM FINDS THE key to the Polo on top of the left front tire, and it takes three tries for the engine to start.
“Some astronaut,” he murmurs, sitting in the right seat, thankful the little car is an automatic, so he won’t have to worry about shifting on the “wrong” side of the car. On the passenger’s seat is a worn map of this part of South Africa, with a tiny red dot he hopes marks his location. A faded dotted line for what looks to be a dirt lane goes on for—crap, fifty miles?—before it connects with a paved road.
He shifts in his seat and slowly starts driving away from the hangar, the dirt road barely visible, and it doesn’t take long for the hangar to disappear in the rearview mirror.
Once he finds a paved road and eases out, he forgets for a moment that here, driving is on the left side of the road. A roaring dual-cargo tractor-trailer truck nearly collides with him, honking its horn, and he flips the steering wheel so he’s in the left lane.
Hell of a way to end this mission,he thinks.
Eventually he sees a sign telling him that he’s on the N14, and the drive quickly becomes monotonous and monochrome, the only color being buses and cars that scream by, passing him, or others heading in the opposite direction.
Following the map, he’s heading east and eventually to Johannesburg. He pulls the car over and takes a quick pee break, and then on his Company-issued phone, taken from Director Abrams’s home—a cautious woman, to have such supplies in her house—dials the number provided to him less than three hours ago. There’s low brush and trees not much taller than him, and an incredibly deep blue sky.
It rings twice and is picked up by a woman speaking Chinese.
Liam says, “I’m sorry, is this Chin Lin?”
The woman switches to English. “Yes, this is Chin Lin. Who is this, please?”
Another double-trailer truck flies by, spitting gravel and sand into his face. “Liam Grey.”
Her voice sharp, she says, “I told you not to call me until you were in South Africa.”
“That’s where I am,” he says. “A desolate spot, but that’s where I am. On the N14. About forty kilometers from a place called Kakamas.”
“Impossible. I only spoke to you about three hours ago.”
“Yet here I am.”
“How did you get there so fast, Liam Grey?”
“I clicked my heels three times and saidThere’s no place like deserted South Africa,” he says. “I’m here, I’ve called you. What now?”
